


Young At Heart

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Deepthroating, Emetophilia, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, NSFW Art, Oral Fixation, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Jack’s in puppy love with one of his dad’s best friends, and he’s got a hunch that it might be mutual.
Relationships: Jack Kline/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	Young At Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pissticide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissticide/gifts).



> **Watch out for the NSFW illustration (way) down below!**
> 
> No penetration in this one. Still explicit af though, because…3k of oral. You’re welcome.
> 
> A tidbit of brainstorming for the setup:  
> Sam is Jack’s dad’s (Cas’) buddy and spends a lot of his time around the Klines’ house. He’s not as old as Cas but older than Jack by a lot and Jack sees him as this idol/superstar type. Sam is fun and casual and doesn’t mind Jack being around and inserting Jack into buddy activities/trips/etc. Doesn’t have kids and isn’t married or anything as far as Jack knows. Jack’s thinking about moving out for college but he loves his home too much, can’t make himself let go, can’t leave his dad etc.
> 
> For the lovely pissticide. Forever jealous of your name.

This year’s summer is different. Airy and light, like it hasn’t quite decided to stay yet. Might get up and vanish, just like that.

One of the magnets falls off when Jack slams the fridge closed. He bends down to pick it up and reattach it before he rejoins Sam out in the backyard.

“Thanks, buddy,” says Sam, and their fingers touch briefly when he accepts the cold beer out of Jack’s hand. The bottle is wet immediately with its cold glass meeting the warm air.

Jack smiles, wordless.

He slips back into his chair. Marlow jumps right back into his lap, like she’s not covered in three pounds of fur. Jack strokes her head, reaches for his lemonade, sips from the paper straw.

Next to him, Sam breathes out with emphasis. Starts flapping the neckline of his shirt, and Jack sneaks a peek at the promise of chest hair.

“Jesus, it’s hot.”

“We can head inside. Our AC works.”

Sam reminds, “Gotta watch the grill,” and yeah, Jack guesses they gotta. “He said ten minutes? It’s been, like, thirty.”

“You can head inside, I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Sam insists, “No, no, it’s fine,” and he’s gorgeous, melting and sweaty and drinking beer and Jack has yet to understand what exactly he’s feeling, but…

It’s a good feeling. He knows as much.

Jack smiles. “I can get you more beer.”

Sam splutters around his current mouthful. “You tryna get me drunk, huh?” He gives Jack a sly look, always gentle but with a spark in his eye he doesn’t have when he talks to Cas. Not like this. “I’ll end up on your guys’ couch again, an’ you don’t want that, trust me.”

“I could make you pancakes again,” muses Jack. Marlow purrs underneath his hand. “I don’t mind.”

Sam smiles—mostly to himself, and he looks younger like that, softer. He admits, “Those were some killer pancakes,” and his hands obscure the size of the bottle, and the Klines’ garden and seems too small to hold him.

The cicadas scream around them. The vegetable garden rests, finally, with the settling night, while the grill waits—just like Sam and Jack—for Jack’s dad to stock it, put it to use.

~

Jack’s always been paced wrong.

Too fast with some and sluggish with other things.

Sam’s tongue is warm and slick and huge as it laps into Jack’s mouth, against Jack’s own tongue, and that’s so new. Starry-eye material and Jack blinks stupid, warm, and sighs.

Sam’s hand pushes at Jack’s forehead, his hair; rakes it back, out of their faces.

Unsure, “This okay?” and Jack nods, grins; delirious.

He kisses Sam again. Tells him, “Feels nice,” and rolls his hips so Sam can feel him against his thigh, can feel how ‘okay’ exactly all of this is.

Sam makes a wounded, low noise. Like when Cas and Jack talk him into a piece of cake during his cutting season.

“Is it good for you, too?” and Sam nods, eyes closed, lip sucked into his own mouth before Jack takes that one over.

Jack’s bed creaks as they shift. As Jack gets his knee between Sam’s glorious legs and straddles one of those thighs right and grinds down on it and yes, yes; this is what he wants. He knows, now.

“Hey, slow, buddy; slow…!”

Jack kisses him quiet. Has those hands all over himself, rubbing across his back and his shoulders and holding on, pulling Jack _in_ , and Jack has seen movies and videos but those were never like—this.

Sam murmurs, “Fuck,” and, “We shouldn’t,” but puts one of his paws over the back of Jack’s neck instead of pushing Jack’s hand away from where it cups the damp-warm bulge of his crotch.

Blinks up at Jack with reverence and wonder and ‘are you sure?’ and Jack gets his other hand to cup that cheek, slop his tongue back behind Sam’s teeth.

Jack can feel Sam’s cock lurching up at his hand when he grinds down. Can feel it filling out, growing hard and harder right there with Jack’s hand to witness it, and Sam squirms so sweet.

Wrings his left around Jack’s waist and slurs, “Fuck,” slips lower to settle on Jack’s hip, the cheap artificial leather of Jack’s belt, the rough blue denim of his jeans.

Jack asks, “Is this okay?” and Sam makes another dog noise. His hips hitch like he has no control over them, like he can’t keep still. “Sam?”

“I, just—are, are you sure, that like—I’m, you should, I’m— _old_ ,” pleads Sam, confusion lacing right in there and Jack shakes his head, smiles, and Sam looks scandalized now, entirely baffled.

Jack confides, “I like you,” and his chest flutters with that, stumbles and slots back into place (just-so). “And I like doing this with you.” More kisses. “Do you like me, too?”

Slurred, “Of course,” hands into Jack’s hair, pushing it back, half-tucking it behind his ears and failing. “Of course I like you, Jack.”

“Can I touch you some more? Please?” and Sam nods, heats further and looks embarrassed, looks adorable and Jack wants to never stop kissing him. Wants to hug him and hold him and never let go.

Jack kneads at the ever-increasing bulge under his palm, and Sam’s hands settle back on Jack’s hips for that; half a finger slipped underneath Jack’s shirt where there’s blank skin while Jack grinds his own dick up against Sam’s leg.

“Fuck. We shouldn’t.”

Sam swallows. Looks between them; at Jack’s normal-sized hand on Sam’s not-normal-sized body. At Jack, humping his leg—the almost-circle of Sam’s fingers clutched around the skinny width of Jack’s hips.

Coarse, “Jesus Christ,” and Jack leans in for more kisses. One hand on Sam’s chest, pinching until he finds a nipple, and Sam groans, chuckles.

Squeezes at Jack’s ass, one globe an easy fit in his hand.

“Where’d you learn all this, huh?”

Jack manages, “Internet,” around Sam’s tongue, against the scrape of Sam’s beard.

Sam’s hum reverberates through both of their chests they’re so close.

“What, you watched some videos?” Dream-drift of thumb below Jack’s eye; Sam’s hands are constantly on the move. “So you can take care of me right? S’that it?”

Jack nods, lip between his teeth, and Sam breaks into the cutest, widest smile.

Looks like he wants to hide but he just says, “You’re gonna kill me,” and Jack plucks that shirt open, finally, worms between fabric and skin and Sam lets him.

Hums around Jack’s tongue, sweet and deep. Lets Jack explore the width of his chest, the coarse hair and firm muscle. Lets him pinch and pull at his nipple and winces, eventually, but doesn’t tell Jack to stop. Can’t.

Murmurs, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” when Jack gathers all his meagre courage and pops that top button of his fly; struggles with the zipper. “What’re you doing, baby,” and it’s not a real question because Sam already knows the answer.

Jack’s heart is pounding up into his throat at this point he’s so hard, so pent-up. Breathes heavy and looks down, between them, where he peels Sam’s cock out of Sam’s underwear and Sam gets a hold of Jack’s biceps once Jack finally succeeds. When Sam’s cock practically leaps out, thick and long and heavy and Jack’s hand is on it immediately, strokes him clumsy and wet because Sam’s _constantly_ wet and sweaty and drippy somehow, and Jack marvels at the sensation and Sam’s hitched breath, at how Sam can’t handle being touched like this, by Jack, at all.

Sam hides behind his hand now, finally, muttering, “Oh God, oh _God_ , Jack,” and grabs at Jack’s wrist; too weak to stop but Jack halts, of course, and Sam’s cock flexes in his grip, and Jack swallows air and nothing.

Jack offers, “I can stop,” and Sam—for a moment, he looks like he’d say yes. Like he’d call it off, maybe another time, bud.

But Sam just makes a face, just shortly, within the flicker of an eye, before he kisses Jack again. Closed-mouthed and sweet, and he directs Jack’s wrist just-so, so light it might as well have been an accident, but Sam never does anything careless (wouldn’t be capable, probably).

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, all right?” and Jack nods, relieved, happy, and Sam reciprocates that smile. Pets Jack’s face and kisses, kisses, kisses, while Jack works his hand.

Sam’s lashes flutter with his pleased, secret sigh. He visibly relaxes the longer Jack jerks him off.

Drift of hand, again. One tucked safe under-around Jack’s back, cradling him close, while the other thumbs at Jack’s belt, Jack’s flank. Under his clothes, just a little, but it’s enough to send Jack’s underwear further towards sure ruin.

Jack tells him, “I wanna try something,” and Sam chuckles, “What?” testing and curious but his face distorts different when Jack pushes off, scoots down.

Sam grips at Jack’s tee around his shoulder and holds on, babbles, “Jack?” and, “Oh God,” and Jack’s stomach flips, sends his pulse stumbling and his face to a new layer of heat but he wants this, he does.

With Sam’s cock still gripped steady in his hand, Jack drops his mouth open to lap at the drippy, fat head of it. Tastes weird and secret and warm, and he’s not sure he likes that, but it feels amazing against his tongue, feels amazing how Sam stares at him doing it; so he does it again.

And again.

Again, “Jack,” choked-off, and yeah, this is new, farther than they’ve ever gone before. But Jack _wants_.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and Sam strokes his cheek, plucks his bangs behind his ear for him. Just breathes all heavy, mesmerized, and can’t speak. Jack offers again, “I can stop,” but Sam’s hand nudges him—down, towards it, so Jack purses his lips, eyes still locked with Sam’s, and closes them over the very tip of Sam’s cock.

Sam winces, full-body.

Winces again when Jack sucks at it, just once, like this is a straw he’s nursing on, and Sam murmurs, “Shit,” and fans his fingers out on the side of Jack’s face, cradles him.

Jack sticks his tongue out to drag it from top to bottom and back up again, to feel Sam out. Goes back to suckle on the heaviest vein that sticks out like a plea, and Sam’s legs flinch underneath him. Jack’s on his knees in front of the bed at this point, frames Sam’s hips with his elbows, boxes him in.

He closes his lips around the tip, takes it deeper. Slides it across his tongue, and the texture is so smooth and slick and he _likes_ that, so he swirls his tongue around it like when they’re kissing, and he can see Sam’s stomach jumping.

Rubs his hand across it to soothe him; pushes that shirt up a little more to reveal the rest of Sam’s happy trail. Rubs his thumb down that path and Sam is so sensitive here, too, and he hums, sighs; something.

“You ever done this before?”

Jack hums his decline around Sam’s glans. Pops up though for the worried, “Am I doing okay?” and gets Sam’s thumb edged into his mouth. Lets it pull his jaw open, lower, skirt across the thick pulse of his tongue.

Sam promises, “Doing _so_ okay. Better than okay,” and Jack smiles, huffs with Sam stirring his thumb inside his mouth. “Close your lips without clenching your teeth. Yeah, like that.”

Sam’s thumb pumps in-out in slow motion. Jack sucks his cheeks in to keep from losing him.

Sam smiles. “Yeah, just like that.”

Quicker motion. Jack’s eyes slip closed. It feels nice.

Sam takes his thumb away to replace it with two of his fingers instead. They’re longer than his thumb, of course, but Jack applies the same technique. Sam scissors his fingers wide and then wider, vertical and then horizontal, and Jack splutters a small embarrassed laugh; feels Sam bulging out his cheeks from the inside.

Sam beams at him. Keeps his voice down low, like this is a secret. “You like that?”

Jack chuckles, “Ish ticklesh,” with Sam switching to thumb and finger, stretching out the corners of his mouth like a frog.

“So cute like that, Jack.”

Jack warms like only Sam can make it happen. Lets Sam feed him three, lets him get them far-far in and wraps his lips around them to make it good, to feel them stretching him out. Jack hums, pleased, and swallows with struggle as his mouth waters, tries his best to keep his teeth off Sam’s knuckles as Sam strokes his fingers in-out again.

Sam offers, “You wanna try that on my cock?” and he’s sheepish, quiet, and that word is _new_ from his mouth, too; and Jack likes it, he does, he _does_ , so he nods, of course, yes, yeah, _everything_.

Sam’s cock is bigger than his fingers; trickier. Jack drops his jaw all the way but can still feel his teeth catching as he pulls his mouth over Sam’s cock, so he stays careful, slow. Eyes on Sam, watchful, and Sam’s face glosses over kinda stupid and he murmurs, “That’s it,” so Jack sucks his cheeks in, takes him further down, and that seems to work.

A gentle tug to his hair. Sam shows him to bob his head up and down, and Jack remembers that from the videos; right. Remembers those instructions he picked up, too, and slides his still-there gripped hand up and down as well, tight but not quite being able to close his fingers all the way around. Sam groans, then, low and blissed, so Jack does that again—pulls his hand down when he moves his mouth up, and Sam curses softly into his beard for that, babbles Jack’s name again and he’s so sweet, so big and careful and his hand still rests on Jack’s head, and Jack enjoys the weight of it.

Enjoys that Sam allows himself to help himself, show Jack what he wants.

Baby-pressure on the top of his head makes Jack slot a little deeper, takes Sam’s cock further down his mouth. It bumps up against the back of his throat and he winces. Doesn’t hurt, but it’s not comfortable either. Sam’s hand guides him back to that same depth though on the next stroke, and even deeper on the following.

Jack gags.

“Oh, fuck.” Sam looks confused, disoriented; doesn’t take his hand off Jack’s head. “You okay?”

And Jack nods, clears his throat, swallows the new wave of spit. Gets his head pressed back down and blinks against the surge of tears, feels his lashes clumping together; closes his eyes so he can focus.

Breathes through his nose. Lets Sam direct him, guide him; feels and hears him groaning when Jack manages to take him deep like before, and his stomach lurches just a little, this time.

Sam mumbles, “Relax,” and, “Let me,” and rolls his hips, tugs Jack lower on each stroke. Jack tries, he does.

Attempts to rise and swallow but isn’t let up high enough. Moans, caught, and Sam praises, “So good for me, Jack,” and so Jack stays put, fights hard not to struggle. Lets Sam dip down his gullet and heaves, then, meets the bed with his stomach and sternum and sucks a breath through his nose. They lose some friction with his spit bubbling out from the corner of his stretched-out mouth, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. Moves rougher, if anything.

Rolls his hips liberally now, grinds himself into Jack’s throat. Still nowhere near getting all of his cock inside and Jack doubts that they’ll ever get there; and Sam’s face tightens with time, with maybe his frustration growing and he grunts, softly, bitten-back.

Sam shifts his hips, maybe plants his feet on the floor of Jack’s bedroom right, finally, because he thrusts for real, now—short and still clearly controlled but Jack splutters because it’s too much, his throat is too small but gets forced open nevertheless.

Takes only a couple of these until Jack’s eyes tear up for real, until there’s trails down his cheeks and ropes of spit stringing from his chin, and his stomach flutters in sheer panic because it doesn’t know any better. Sam’s hand in Jack’s hair feels so so good and Jack’s just hot and stretched thin and Sam uses him, and when Jack seizes and his body tries to push off and away Sam ignores that, won’t _have_ that; keeps push-pulling him in and in and in and Jack can’t stop himself, then—

reels, because his stomach rolls and clenches and his vomit gushes up his gullet and out around Sam’s cock, and Sam is gasping surprised profanities but clamps his other hand around Jack’s skull now, too, uses both to hold Jack in, bury himself so so deep while Jack’s throat milks with desperate attempts to save him from choking. Jack splutters and gets some of the mess into his nose and he can’t breathe, pressed up against Sam’s pelvis and Sam groans, feral and loud and he’s so hard, such a solid brand down Jack’s gullet and it hurts, now, truly hurts and burns and Jack’s pushing at him, fights himself free.

Comes up with a violent gurgle, a gasp and a cough all at once, and Sam fists his cock at breakneck-speed and wrings the last gushes of his orgasm out like that; shoots over Jack’s mouth, Jack’s face, and already whimpers, “Sorry, shit, sorry,” but doesn’t stop.

Jack’s still dizzy, still catching his breath, by the time Sam lets go of his cock, tugs Jack’s head close instead.

“Oh God, I’m so, _so_ sorry, Jack…!”

Jack coughs, and he wheezes. Blinks through tears and Sam’s come and gets his face wiped at. He’s sore and he hurts but he’s relaxed, now, and his cock is still hard and wet where it’s trapped behind the zipper of his jeans and he looks up at Sam, at Sam’s worried, embarrassed beautiful face.

Is told, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? You wanna shower?” and Sam’s jeans are hopelessly soiled as well, and they’ll have to throw them in the wash, dry them before Dad comes home. To be fair, Sam should probably join Jack in that shower. You know—for good measure.

Jack slurs, smiling, “Was that okay?” and Sam just makes that cute little aborted chortle and wipes at Jack’s face some more.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a sort of [sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26711509) for this.


End file.
